Lunch

I slammed the knife down on the cutting board. It left a deep gash, darkness in the midst of the light-colored wood. I stared at the blade for a while and then walked calmly to the kitchen table, where I kicked the hell out of a chair before I sank down into another one and rested my head on my hands.

How could that bastard cheat on me?

I had been faithful. I had been good to him. I had taken care of his house and raised his children and ironed his clothes and given him the kinkiest kind of sex I could fathom. Anything he wanted. I wasn’t just a good wife; I was a fucking great wife.

Yet he had cheated and I had the proof, the pictures. The worst ones were those in which he was going down between those perfectly toned thighs, the kind of thighs I hadn’t seen in my mirror since I was seventeen. I would never look like that again, but that I could live with. No, that wasn’t what made my heart sink down to my belly, what made me so angry I wanted to hit him and throw up all at once.

It was the fact that he was going down on her. Giving her head. Dining at the Y.

He had never done that to me.

Seven years of marriage in which he had gladly accepted the blowjobs I gave him. They didn’t make him come, but he warned me long before our marriage that it was almost impossible to make him come that way, so neither of us minded. He liked the sensation anyway, the slickness of my lips and the rough velvet of my tongue. It didn’t make him come, but it got him hard almost immediately and rewarded me with more than a few drops of his taste.

But did he ever return the favor? No. Not once.

But he did it for that whore.

I kicked the chair again. It skittered across the floor. In thirty minutes or so he would be here, sitting in that chair, eating lunch with me and discussing the divorce, who got what and who would live where, as if the unspoken questions weren’t crowding my air like an elephant in the room that had grown too big too fast. He would sit there and talk about anything but the fact that he had cheated and I had kicked him out.

He might be able to tell me the reasons he cheated. If I asked him. But what I really wanted to ask him was why he thought my pussy wasn’t good enough for eating?

I stared at the knife. The lettuce. I needed to finish making lunch and get it ready for him, the same way I had for seven years, being the good wife one last time—

I spied the cucumber.

Pleasant cucumber, one of the most benign foods imaginable, a delicious shade of green, just waiting to be sliced into the thin, eighth-of-an-inch slices that he loved. Lightly salted and dropped into the salad haphazardly, then drizzled with dressing.

The idea began to form. At first it was absurd. Nuts. Ludicrous. No way was I going to do that.

But why not? What would it hurt?

He would never know ... but I would always know.

I sauntered to the counter and picked it up. It was heavy in my palm, a good weight, one of the signs of a really good cucumber. The inside of it would be fresh and light, a pale cream color gradually darkening to the outer edges, a bit slick and juicy. I spun it around in my hand. Tossed it from one hand to the other. Circled my hand around it. My fingers didn’t touch, but they came close.

I slid my hand up and down the cucumber. It warmed quickly under my palm.

Something else was getting warm, too. I sank down to the floor. I knew I was wet before I reached under my skirt, but I was pleasantly delighted at just how wet I was. I kissed the tip of cucumber. Played with it. Giggled at my ingenuity.

I lay back on the floor and slipped it between my legs.

I had a moment of pause; this was a bit larger than the dildo I usually played with. And it was cold against my clit. But it quickly warmed up, and so far as the girth – hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I slipped it into my pussy.

Despite the fact that I was wetter than I had been in recent memory, I was tight. Tight enough that the cucumber hurt just a little. But that was alright; I would come harder that way, with something stretching me just a bit, something a little uncomfortable. My soon-to-be-ex-husband’s cock was like that. He was always on the bigger side of things, and now I giggled again as I slowly fucked myself with the cucumber on the kitchen floor. I had a feeling I would get more satisfaction out of this cucumber than I had ever gotten from one of his fucks.

I began to fuck myself a little faster.

My pussy burned. My clit was hard under my fingers as I pulled it, stroked it, pinched it lightly while I drove that cucumber deep. I was going to make myself come. Maybe more than once. Right here on the kitchen floor, just a few minutes before he walked through the door.

Lunch, indeed!

I came. Hard. I came so hard that I cried out. I bucked hard against my hand. My pussy throbbed. My voice bounced and echoed in the big kitchen. If he had been outside, he would have heard me. As my orgasm faded, I glanced at the clock. I had been playing much longer than I thought, so it was time to get busy again.

My legs were shaky as I rose to my feet. The cucumber slipped out of me and I felt almost guilty, abusing such an innocent item of food in such a way. I laid it gently on the cutting board. I watched my juices, almost clear but not quite, slide down the sides. I had really done a number on that poor thing. It was glistening with the remnants of my orgasm.

The knife was heavy in my hand. I sliced that cucumber into perfectly even, eighth-of-an-inch slices. Just as he liked them.

I chopped everything else. Put it all in the big salad bowl. Eyed the cucumber slices for a moment. Toyed with the knife, reconsidering one last time.

By the time the doorbell rang, the table was beautifully set. The salad bowl sat in the center. On one end of the table, closest to where the unknowing and fortunate husband would be sitting, there was a side plate of tomato and cucumber slices. His favorites.

I watched as he sat down and smiled at me. Then he dug into the salad, drizzled it with his favorite dressing. Added cucumbers. One, then another, then half a dozen. He picked one up and studied it, then dove in. I watched contentedly as he finished his salad and started in on the last of the cucumber.

“Do you want any?” he asked politely.

“Actually, I couldn’t help myself and I had plenty before you arrived,” I said coolly.

“This cucumber, it’s great! Did you grow this in the garden?”

“Of course.”

He smiled and took another bite. “You always were fantastic in the kitchen, hon.”

Gwen Masters is a professional writer, editor, publisher and songwriter. Of
the many hats she wears in the business, being a writer is her true passion.
Hundreds of her short stories have been published, both in print and online.
Gwen is a regular contributor to Ruthie’s Club, a monthly staple at
Voracitybeat, and a staff member at Clean Sheets. Her latest novel, Sex and
Guitars, is available now.

Gwen has written crime novels, mainstream romances and the occasional short
story under other pseudonyms, but erotica remains her chosen genre. To read
more products of her dirty mind, visit her website at http://www.gwenmasters.net.

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